I tell myself it’s not about jealousy, not about insecurity, but the nagging voice in the back of my mind won’t shut up. The way he’s taken secretive calls, stopped bothering to communicate with me—in any form—and then just slipped out of the house without a word—it’s too familiar. Too cliché.

And pride won’t let me walk away without looking him in the face and getting answers.

I keep my distance, trailing behind his car, all while feeling like an idiot as we weave through the city streets.

When he pulls into a public parking lot, I am fortunate enough to find parking on the street a little way back. But I don’t have any time to collect myself and question what the fuck I’m actually doing, because he’s out of his car and jogging down the sidewalk within seconds.

I hurry behind him and then falter when I see the sign above the door he just walked into.

The shelter.

I stop short, my breath catching in my throat. A different kind of guilt curls in my stomach and twists tight. He’s not cheating on me. He’s not secreting away for a rendezvous that will be blasted all over Page Six and humiliate me. He’s not avoiding me because he doesn’t want to talk to me. Today, anyway.

He’s going to help the less fortunate.

I linger outside for a moment and debate whether I should leave. But a stubborn, desperate need to understand pushes me forward.

Inside, the scent of warm food and disinfectant fills the air. From a distance, I spot Jase as he moves through the space with an ease that says he’s comfortable here. At home in a way I’ve never seen him before. He greets people by name and with a warm smile as he hands out trays. He jokes with a few of the people like they’re old friends.

He’s . . . this is who he is when no one’s watching.

It’s a staggering thought and one that wins my heart no favors as it falls a bit harder for him with the revelation.

Without thinking, I move across the space and step up beside him, grabbing a stack of trays like he did to help distribute.

He stiffens when he sees me, his jaw clenched tight. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping.”

“Hendrix—”

“You don’t get to tell me no.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, but he doesn’t argue. Probably solely because he doesn’t want to cause a scene. Instead, he goes back to passing out trays, to making people smile, all while acting like I’m not here.

I pretend not to notice but it stings something fierce.